January 1st, 1916. Each New Year's Day one wonders afresh at the oddness of commencing the year in January, cold January, when all the world is engrossed in recovering from Christmas benevolence and bracing itself to hustle through the days with the minimum amount of cold, instead of Nature's New Year in April. January, this month of surprises, with its rain and sunshine, sleet and mists, its promises of rest soon to be found, is surely already a hoary old man with a life of infinite experience behind him, a month for achieving and not for beginning things.

At least, this is how we felt when the New Year's festivities, over which we had taken such trouble, commenced. Our tables, plentifully laid out with fruits, bonbons and crackers, the gifts of friends at home as well as those here, betokened rather Christmas than New Year gaieties.

If our decorations of green garlands, mistletoe, holly and ribbons were more elegant than effective, they were, at any rate, appreciated, judging by our guests' criticism as they waited in a queue for the doors to open.

Throughout the tea, which kept us well occupied as, cans in hand, we filled and refilled cups, a first-rate volunteer concert party kept the room in roars of laughter.

Some A.S.C. officers (professionals in peace time) were especially clever in patter songs, and delight was unbounded when one of them, unrecognisable in a motley selection of our garments and a gorgeous wig, in which he impersonated a "flapper," moved coyly among the audience and, willing or unwilling, embraced all within his reach, singing in a high falsetto, "You made me love you."

For those unable to come to the early tea we hastily prepared a second spread for eight o'clock, during which time a local French orchestra played popular selections.

Thus, with much festivity, by which we hoped to make a slight break in the monotony of "this Base existence," ended New Year's Day, 1916. Successful though it was, to me at least there was a certain tinge of sadness, for it is impossible any longer to conceal the fact that, owing to failing health, my days of work are numbered.

To be "scrapped" like the Ford cars, to return home a derelict, a Rip van Winkle, is no pleasing prospect; but—che sarÀ, sarÀ. We are all fatalists now, like the men in the trenches.

Nor is the passing of so many familiar faces altogether a pleasing thing to contemplate, whilst the psychology of new arrivals leaves us marvelling. Did we ever thrill at the sight of a crowded camp, a convoy, or feel an odd sensation of pride at the sight of the khaki-crammed rooms in the early days of our apprenticeship? Were we inspired to write long descriptions of "The Front"—as they insist on calling the Base—and of War?

Every now and then one feels tempted to say, "War? What do you know of war?

"Have you seen men as they came down from the Front during the first mad months, primitive, demented, at their last gasp, ready to face death in any form rather than the hellish uncertainty they had just left? Have you heard the groans of the wounded, seen arms rotting off and legs smashed to pieces, and dressed black gaping holes in young boys' sides? Have you seen faces blown beyond recognition—faces eyeless, noseless, jawless, and heads that were only half heads?

"Have you stood by the dying and watched them in their last agonies, writhing with tetanus, and prayed God to give a speedy release from their sufferings?

"Have you been round the cold, extemporised wards and covered up countless restless forms on their pallets, smelt the smell of the mud-caked coats that were their pillows, soothed their coughs with what there was left of tinned milk, hearkening as they cried aloud in their sleep:

"'Great Lord Jesus, help us!'

"Men who had probably not prayed since their childhood, men who had probably scoffed at the idea of God—have you heard them live through their battles again in their slumber or under anÆsthetics? 'Get at 'em, lads—now's your last chance—give it 'em 'ot—ah! ah!'

"Have you removed clothes and boots from helpless limbs caked on by seven weeks' mud and overrun with vermin? Have you seen forever nameless enemy corpses washed and carried out to the mortuary, and, enemy though they were, because of their youth, wished that you could tell their mothers you had done your best?

"When you have seen this—which you never can see, for this was 'In the beginning,' and now the great System is prepared for every emergency—and not before, will you know what modern warfare means."

Yet it is all something one would not have missed, although no sane person would face it a second time; for, as an American said recently: "Those who have not participated in this war will be for ever lacking in something which is not to be recaptured later."

January 5th. Not only did a Taube honour us with a visit to-day, but it actually deigned to drop a bomb or two and succeeded in killing a few women and children, though not a single man, just outside one of our huts. After an exciting chase it was brought down, we are told, off Calais; though exactly the object of the visit no one can imagine.

January 15th. In the evening the Gymkhana finals and prize-giving took place. It is surprising what an amount of sport can be found in an indoor affair of this sort.

True, it needs someone with a strong personality to organise, but such a personality is in our midst at the moment in the person of the Rev. Dr. F——, denomination unknown, but humour and strength of character undeniable. In spite of the fact that he acts as Master of Ceremonies, clad in a ludicrous medley of garments, khaki breeches, brown fisherman's blouse, canvas slippers that convert him into a true "Simplicitas," he is never for a moment lacking in the dignity necessary to a MaÎtre de CÉrÉmonies.

The greatest zeal is shown in participation of the different sports—the wheelbarrow race, the cock fight, hat-trimming competition, potato race, the spar pillow fight, for which an odd contrivance of wood has been erected over a buffer of mattresses, and other items of the varied programme.

Most fun was perhaps found in the shaving race, in which the palm was awarded to the man who shaved his victim most cleanly and quickly with the handle of a teaspoon.

January 24th, Dawn. It was about eight o'clock yesterday that the first alarm was given. In the stillness of the serene night the church bell began to toll; simultaneously the sound of whistles rent the air. Thinking it must be the military policemen on their nocturnal hunt for delinquents not yet in barracks, I put my head into a neighbouring cafÉ to drop a suggestive word of warning to two unwary sergeants lingering over their glasses of beer. It was not the military policemen, however, for from the distance a cry of "Fire!" resounded, and with the incredible rapidity characteristic of all rumours we learned that the Enteric Hospital was ablaze.

Guided by the smell of smoke and the dishevelled groups at the doorways, we found ourselves in the midst of the confusion. From the lower windows of the building a cloud of black smoke issued. Men on ladders, hose in hand, had smashed the windows—a fact which merely served to add fury to the flames.

"Turn the water on!" they cried, and even above the din of the gesticulating, gabbling crowd came the cry, "Turn the water on!" The Frenchman to whom the appeal was repeated shrugged his shoulders. He did not quite understand.

There is no wind; it is a divine night, as calm and clear as midsummer, with a bright moon looking smilingly on. It can yet be saved, this wonderful building, whence issue streams of khaki figures readjusting the respirators they had donned in place of smoke helmets, bearing with what care they can their precious burdens on beds and stretchers.

A voice beside me said:

"Here, you, take that!"

"That" proved to be a woman's form which the speaker was carrying with the aid of a frail-looking little V.A.D., who, from the way she held the patient, had obviously never been in such a position before. I gripped the man's hand, with a "Don't strain; lie easy!" to the patient. We got her into a neighbouring house, where already two or three other bad cases are installed. Their beds are tilted upwards, they are clad in their hospital garments only.

"Ah! You're there, Hope," says our burden, as we deposit her in a deep arm-chair, to the white-faced boy whose bed occupies most of the small room.

The coincidents of war are strange! It is supposedly from this very patient that she has contracted the disease.

"Yes, and he's an officer now," came a nurse's reply. "Gazetted to-day. Did you know?"

They are very cosy and cheerful, and as yet the noise without has not penetrated the room. We pass out again. The fire is getting under way now; clouds of black smoke issue from the windows of the first floor, and flames lick the upper balcony.

Still they cry for more water.

They have moved the patients from the beach to the side streets now. They lie on the roadway, already soaking in the water which, by reason of the countless leakages in the hose, fails to arrive anywhere near the scene of action.

In their eyes is a mute appeal, as a gust of wind hurls a shower of sparks over their helpless forms. Then a cloud of smoke hides them from our sight.

"Is anyone left in the building?" is the question on everyone's lips. A reassuring murmur goes round that no patients are left, and the firemen, looking strangely grotesque in their respirators, are now making efforts to save a few of the valuable instruments and records. Some of them are cut about the face by falling glass. From the open doors smoke begins to issue, and cries of "Gangway, there! Gangway!" The hot flames fan one's cheeks. They come in spurts now. Great fascinating spurts! One surmises which window next, and feels a ridiculous sensation of pride at being present, coupled with a longing to do something.

The opportunity comes. Load after load one's hands are filled with apparently valuable documents. "Officers' Mess," shout the men who place them there, as one moves off to find an entrance to the building.

On returning the noise is greater than ever. The rescued are being deposited anywhere—everywhere—wildly—pÊle-mÊle. Red blankets fall from windows, papers flutter a moment, adding to the general danger, and get trodden under foot in the mud.

"The left wing is doomed. Can they save the right?"

"Why don't they blow it up to safeguard the adjoining houses?"

Fragments of conversation float from all sides. Everyone has suggestions to make, but it seems to be no one's business to carry them out.

One's thoughts fly to those patients on the stretchers, and one wonders why this must be added to all they have already endured. Many of them will die of shock. It all seems so unnecessary. And all this time, silently and with dignity, the electric lights in the right wing of the great edifice burn on.

What are those old stone walls feeling as their invincible enemy creeps on? They who have seen so much of the levity of peace time, so much of the sorrow of war, have come to their end at last. They meet their fate bravely, unflinchingly, with the fortitude of the captain of an abandoned ship.

One thinks of all the comedies and tragedies that have been enacted within these walls, the laughing romances of summer days, the weary suffering. One recalls the months of valuable research work that have been carried on in the improvised laboratories—discoveries to benefit mankind—all may be irrevocably lost.

One thinks of all the things lying there—the little personal things—the treasures that can never be replaced—the lover's first gift, the parent's last letter.

The doomed building has been abandoned. The moon gleams red through the veil of sparks and smoke on to the crowd that has congregated on the beach. Watching the Ypres-like eddies of flame, one casts a thought at the surprise of the arrivals on incoming troopships; one wonders if folks at home, too, are watching the stupendous beacon.

It is all a matter of time now, and the watching is so full of suspense that the end is anxiously awaited by all. A wind is springing up with the oncoming sea, endangering the neighbouring buildings, more especially the adjacent infectious compound composed of carefully isolated bathing-boxes.

On the roof of each stands an orderly extinguishing the sparks as they fall by means of buckets of sand and water handed up by the crowd below.

To the horror of fire is added the horror of risk from infection, as the rudely awakened patients are hurried from their involuntary isolation. As the roaring flames draw nearer, ambulances reeking of disinfectants hurry backwards and forwards with their loads.

The flames run on; turning, twirling and twisting, they play round the glowing beams and iron girders, revelling in their might, licking their chops, one might almost say, as the dull, uncanny thuds of falling masonry bring terror to the hearts of the onlookers.

Then a strange thing occurs. Of a sudden the roof falls in with a crash, dome and eaves, and against the sky stands the flaming skeleton of the ruin. Simultaneously a great red cross glows for a space of time on the southern side. And, although it is only a burning window frame, it seems to us to symbolise the invincibility of that great universal emblem of mercy—the Red Cross.

January 25th. With the dawn we visit the ruins. An uncanny stillness reigns as the waning moon gleams through the charred framework. Distorted bedsteads hang by a thread from skeleton balconies, charred heaps of clothing and paper litter the ground. Isolated beams and fragments gleam, ghostlike, in the desolate upper stories, shedding every few moments a thin shower of sparks. A slight wind fans the one remaining corner into a bright blaze. The thin stream of water is still being played, by way of precaution, upon the adjoining houses.

A French sentry, leaning wearily on his rifle, guards the approach on one side, whilst on the other a British Military Policeman has installed himself upon an empty cask to make the best of his long wait.

Through the cavernous window frames, from gaping cavity to gaping cavity, heedless of the floors that are no more, the wind passes like a restless, moaning spirit. All the wonder, all the excitement, all the glory of its glorious end has passed. There remains only the smouldering debris, the blackened, unbeauteous bricks, the after-smell of burnt-out burning.

Later in the day many sightseers began to appear, some even walking out from the town before their day's work began to verify the reports. For, needless to say, many were the rumours about the fire which had reached them, and they were with difficulty persuaded that—a few cuts and scratches from broken glass excepted—there had not been a single casualty.

In an existence so choc-À-bloc with meetings and partings as ours, it is only a few of the better-known faces that remain in our memory. Yet there came into our hut this morning a man whom we shall not easily forget! He came with a kindly-faced N.C.O., who explained that they were "joy-riding." It was, one surmised from his shyness, the patient's first outing, for he seemed as yet unaccustomed to his disfigurement, which was, to say the least of it, appalling, and which, by means of his large muffler and averted head, he made vain efforts to conceal.

Something in the appeal in the eyes of that pallid, crooked face that may once have been handsome, something of the pathos of that limping, bent young figure, as he stood by the counter declining the sergeant's persuasion to take something, with a pathetic gurgle, only just comprehensible, of, "I can't eat! You know I can't eat," touched us all particularly.

And to think that this is but one of thousands of cases for ever haunted by their own hideousness, for ever dependent on others. Such things as this it is that have wrought us to such a pitch of indignation that the words are apt to escape our lips, "God strafe Germany, the author of this devastation!"